


The High Cost of Living

by ghuune



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Cockles, Come play, Cuddling, Date Night, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Food Play, Frotting, M/M, handjobs, tinhat!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 18:57:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6206677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghuune/pseuds/ghuune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen's Christmas wish is for one normal night, doing the things normal guys in love do. Misha arranges that. First work in "It's Turtles All the Way Down (Not At First)" Jensen POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The High Cost of Living

I. DECEMBER 17th, 2013  
The doorkeeper of Misha's building had never liked Jensen, and the feeling was mutual. The doorkeeper was older than knock-knock jokes, all pendulous earlobes and scabrous skin. Jensen had never thought he'd need the word “scabrous” outside of Words With Friends matches with Jared, but it was the only way to describe this guy—-he was one scabrous old dude. When he laughed, his lips peeled back to expose steel-gray teeth, dry gray tongue. 

Jensen fidgeted and watched pigeons while Mish joked around with him, which he always did. Amongst the doorkeeper's other faults, he also fed the flying rats. Jensen had to admit, as long as he didn't focus on the crap splashed on the cobblestones, they were kinda cute, burbling along, pecking at crumbs, their heads jerking in time with their steps.

Misha palmed his shoulder. “We're going now,” he said to the doorkeeper.

Unfortunately, when Jensen looked around, he and the doorkeeper made eye contact. The old man's eye-whites were yellowish-grey, the color and texture of loogies. His patchy brows snapped down in a glare. Jensen looked away.

As they exited the courtyard, Misha said, “He thinks you're a shallow prick. He's not wrong.”

“You're the loser who can't do better,” Jensen said against his hair, hugging Mish to his side.

It'd been snowing its face off since yesterday. The sidewalks were clear, but on either side of the salted aisles, snow piled to their shins. The heavy blanket distorted sound, isolating them in a bubble where all he could hear was his and Mish's breathing and the soft hiss of falling flakes. Streetlights turned them gold as sparks.

It reminded him of the day they met. His chest hurt. Four and a half years they'd worked this thing, but that first day, he'd had no idea. None. He kissed the crown of Misha's head.

Misha turned his face against his neck, the tip of his nose trailing cold like an ice cube. They were so close that walking was difficult, so Jensen stopped and guided him around in front of him.

“You're frozen,” he said, tugging the collar of his coat tighter around his neck. “I told you you needed a hat and a scarf.”

Mish blinked snow from his eyes. “What if I wanted to be cold so you'd feel even warmer?”

The sap this guy came out with sometimes. Ordinarily, his sarcasm could strip paint off hulls, but he just---The right to free speech did not cover it. It shouldn't be legal.

“I'll give you warm,” he said gruffly. He kissed the cold tip of Misha's nose, warming it with his breath. Then he kissed each quivering eyelid, melting the snow snared in his lashes. Misha sighed, a cloud of breath.

During a phone call a few days ago, he'd asked Jensen what he wanted for Christmas, and Jensen'd replied, “To be normal.”

He'd been in a bad mood that day, tired. The turn of the year made Jared irritable, vulnerable. Anything from fandom wank to an ill-timed red light could set him off. The shooting schedule gave them days off together, at the price of fifteen-hour shoots the days they were on set. Jensen wasn't sleeping well, he missed his wife and baby girl, and he missed Misha. All those things weighed like an anchor, dragging him under.

After a thoughtful pause, Mish had said, “Okay. We can do that. One completely normal day.”

This was that day. Jensen and Jared had been off while Misha shot, so Jensen had spent the day with him---they'd played video games and napped, Jared down with a case of the slows---and came over after Misha wrapped. And now they were walking down to the corner market to buy dinner, the way normal people did. 

Jensen tried to believe that for just one night, he could be a regular guy, hanging out with his boyfriend.

Misha nipped his mouth, the sudden pain making his eyes fly wide. “You're thinking too much.”

Jensen's bottom lip stung. “You heard that?”

“No, but you looked like you were holding in a shit.”

That got him. He staggered back, screaming laughter, and slipped; Misha, smiling, smug, hooked his arm and hauled him up before he fell on his ass. 

He said, “And we're shopping. Remember?”  
\---  
Paper bags rustled as they jockeyed for space in the box kitchen. Jensen bent to put the skewers in the oven while Misha reached over him to load cans into the cupboard. 

This kitchen was a joke, but Misha refused to spring for a bigger place; his only concession to his status in life was to stay in a secured building, if one could call a comm system and one decrepit doorkeeper security. Even his furniture was second-hand. 

Misha set a jar of honey on the counter. Jensen corrected himself: Misha sprang for some luxuries, including ones that really shouldn't be luxuries, like raw honey with the comb still in. Why it should cost three times as much as honey that came in squeezers shaped like bears was beyond his understanding, but it did. 

Curious, he untied the gingham ribbon and unscrewed the metal lid. The honey smelled of clover flowers. He dipped a fingertip in and tasted it, closing his eyes at its floral scent, its complex sweetness.

“I dunno if it's worth fifteen dollars, Mish, but that is some damn fine—”

Misha's eyes had gone dark, watching him. Heat flared between them. Silently he reached around and plunged two fingers in the honey jar.

“Mess,” Jensen said. “Ants,” he said. His eyes felt like they were going to fall out of his head. Mish's fingers shining, dripping honey, the scent rising like the promise of summer.

“Take care of it then,” Misha said, and Jensen groaned thickly. 

He went to his knees and licked the trail of honey off Misha's wrist, Misha's palm, sweet flowers on his tongue. Misha's eyes black with a thin rim of cobalt blue, his lips and cheeks flushing red as Jensen took his fingers whole in his mouth, sucking the sticky honey off. He knew exactly the picture he made and he reveled in it, and in the way Mish began to shake and sway towards him, his chin lifted to show his throat as he stared up at God, eyes reverent and lost. His long moan, broken when he swallowed, and the hard swelling in his jeans, still damp from the snow. Meltwater from the snow in his hair glittered on his temples. 

Jensen ran his tongue between Misha's fingers to catch the last of the honey between his knuckles. At the same time, he rubbed Misha's hard shaft, outlined by damp and clinging denim. He didn't really mean to stimulate him, but it was there and he wanted it, his mouth watering not just from sweetness.

“Jen, stop.” His voice, wrung-out and pleading, made Jensen shudder where he knelt, hips thrusting instinctively. “Damn it, Jen...”

Jensen slowly released his fingers, not letting go of his eyes. Misha was panting. 

“You want to watch a movie on the couch like normal people or not?” he said. His voice had a slight twist to it that told Jensen loud and clear that he was completely okay with ditching their cuddlesome date night, which, of course, only made him want it more. 

So he got to his feet, standing too close to him. His breath washed warm and fast across his mouth, his pupils still yawning dark. He turned away to keep from kissing him, because the secret sun that always shone on them both still poured its heat down, and he knew if he started, he wouldn't be able to stop.  
\---  
They changed into comfortable sweats and arranged themselves on Misha's absurdly large sofa, a hideous thing the size of a pickup's flatbed. It was upholstered in plain beige microfiber, and while Jensen wouldn't be caught dead with this monstrosity in his living room, it was an ideal piece of furniture for cuddling on. 

Misha pressed Play on the movie, and Jensen groaned. “Dirty Dancing? Really?”

“You wanted a normal date night,” he said. “Dirty Dancing, it's almost universally agreed, is a normal date night movie.”

“There's no way I can watch this.”

“But Swayze.”

Jensen grumbled into his scalp, but he was defeated and he knew it. 

“Thought so.” Misha's voice shook with laughter. He pressed himself back against Jensen, his ass socked in the curve of Jensen's pelvis. Jensen found his body's heat, the palpable beat of his heart, reassuring, in some primal way he didn't understand.

It wasn't like he was really gonna watch it anyway. He humped against the dense muscle of Mish's ass right when the bitch sister said, “Butt out, Baby,” and Mish got the joke and laughed.

“Be good,” he said. “I want to watch the round robin. And the maracas.”

“I watched this movie on repeat in eighth grade,” Jensen admitted. 

“Alone, I bet. In your room. With a sock.”

Jensen chuckled. “Color twelve-year-old me with the confused crayon.”

“Knew it,” Misha said. “Nobody can have such a hard-on for Swayze and not like this movie.”

“Wonder what our kids'll get stuck on?” Jensen asked.

Misha sucked in a long breath and said, slow and careful, “Jen, listen. You have permission to just be with me tonight. Okay? This isn't about them. This isn't about---” He gestured in an arc, somehow encompassing the whole world. “This is about us.”

Jensen breathed in the scent of his hair. It was dry now, but the metallic scent of snow still clung to it. He nosed the curving edge of Mish's ear, trying to control his breathing, which wanted to hitch and snag over something like a sob. “The guilt, though, Mish. Just erasing them like that?”

“They'll still be there tomorrow.” He interlaced his fingers with Jensen's and brought their joined hands up to his mouth, brushing his lips over the knuckles. “We aren't going to hell for one night.”

“One night where I met you before I got on the Show. Like maybe when I first hit LA,” Jensen murmured. “We'd've gotten an apartment and I'd've messed you around for a year before I got my act together and admitted I loved you---”

“Happens sooner in this fantasy than it did in real life,” Misha murmured.

“Fewer confounding factors. And we get this place together and, I don't know, work at coffee shops.”

“We wouldn't have gotten work?”

“We'd be out,” Jensen said, speaking against his neck, his lips vibrating against his skin. “Hard to get work as an out actor.”

“Is that what you want?” Misha twisted around so he could look Jensen in the eye. “All things equal, you'd rather be out?”

Jensen stopped and stared at the television for a moment. The pregnant girl in the era before abortion was legal was slumped in a kitchen crying. “Yeah,” he said at last. “If it was just me and you, yeah. I have no idea what I'd do, I mean standing around looking pretty is about my only talent in life, but yeah.”

“We'd starve,” Misha snorted. “My work ethic is buried in Stull Cemetary with an 'I told you I was sick' sign posted over it.”

“That's a damned lie,” Jensen said, petting down his chest, kissing his earlobe. “You work harder than anyone I ever met. I can't believe how hard you work.”

“Who are you to throw around these bald-faced accusations of lying, Mary? Watch any of the episodes you directed recently? How about your songs? Your talent beggars me. All I've ever been able to do is make other people do my work for me. I convince, but you produce.”

“You convince people to make the world better,” Jensen said, “just by being alive.” He sucked Misha's earlobe into his mouth, petted his jaw with his fingers when Misha raised his chin off the cushion, turning his face to him for a soft kiss.

“Can we just agree we love each other and leave it at that?” he asked. “I think this conversation might actually be giving me diabetes.”

Jensen laughed and ran his hand down his body. Misha was not fully erect but he was definitely filling, growing firmer beneath his palm. Misha, with a sigh, picked up his wrist and put it back on his thigh. “Watch the movie,” he said. 

“Yes, sir,” Jensen said.

As the fierce and determined collette learned to dance, he brushed his lips over the side of Misha's neck, traced his fingers with his own. Every tiny catch and sigh, every longing little moan, seared like a brand. The long muscles of Misha's back fluttered as he trailed his fingertips up beneath his sweatshirt, softly skimming his belly.

He took his time, relearning Mish's body, the small hard muscles of his arms, his thick runner's thighs. He nipped and softly sucked the smooth skin of his neck, glancing up at the movie every once awhile. Baby was seducing the dangerous, but vulnerable, dance instructor. She kissed along the line of his shoulder-blades, slow, teasing. Jensen traced the tip of his tongue over the hard vertebrae at Misha's nape.

What he wanted was for Mish to lose himself in sensation, to be aware of nothing but him. He wanted to be Misha's world. 

He trailed his fingertips up and down the line of his erection, fully hard now and tenting the soft fabric of his pants. Misha, past playing coy, twisted his hips, silently begging, but Jensen kept his touch soft, tracing the ridge of his head, the big vein along the top. Mish had a pretty prick. It wasn't as big as his, but it was cut and perfectly shaped, pearly pink flushing to rose red. He rubbed circles on it as Misha writhed and moaned.

He freed it to spring thick and hot against Misha's stomach. There was little point in trying to perform a credible handjob dry, and that wasn't his intent anyway. He just wanted to feel it, velvety hot and pulsing in his hand. He ran his thumb up beneath the head and Misha bucked into the sensation, creeling.

It was a little lonely, pleasuring Mish without being able to see his face. His eyes, his expressions, were such a big part of this for him, but his scent almost made up for it, rich and musky as his arousal grew. Jensen popped his hips and used his free hand to pull down his pants, freeing his own, long-neglected hard-on to stamp wetly against his stomach. With a twist, he was between Misha's naked thighs. 

Misha's surprised gasp made him grin. 

“New one on you?” he asked.

“Embarrassing as it is to admit, yes,” Misha said, and he actually sounded pissed.

“You never had an Ivy-League rub before?” Jensen said, reaching over to feel his head beneath Misha's own hard-on, Misha's sack dragging soft across the top. “This is a historic day.” 

“Better not let Jared catch you saying 'a historic.'”

Jensen rolled his eyes. “Not now with him, Mish.” 

Mish tightened his thighs. Jensen wrapped his fingers around Mish's cock, his fingers bumping against Misha's, there already. He sucked his neck, not caring if he left a mark, grinding hard, his breath tripping. 

“You're so wet,” Misha groaned, palming Jensen's sensitive head. The raw lust in his voice, his torn breath, made Jensen shake. Something about this, the furtiveness of it, the shackled motions, brought out a wild, frustrated desire that surged and threatened to break. 

This wasn't about him though, so he slowed down to tend to Mish, nibbling up the edge of his ear, his hand working him, Misha's own precum helping now. Misha arched and fucked his hand when he thumbed the ridge beneath his head.

The sight of him, vulnerable, writhing in his arms, made protectiveness stab deep. Jensen tucked him more firmly against his body and speeded his stroke, using every trick he knew to please him. “I love you,” he rumbled in his ear.

Mish, beautiful, singing scales, incoherent. He hitched himself up to snatch the notes from his mouth and Misha chased his kiss, his long neck telescoping, so, even though it was awkward, he stayed there, kissing him, the spice from the vegetable skewers stinging his mouth like tiny bees. He tore away when he ran out of breath, both of them gasping, words breaking from them only half-voiced: “Feels good,” and “Faster,” and “Close,” interspersed with formerly innocent syllables turned into down and dirty whores.

He was close, too close, so he let Misha take responsibility for the handjob as he palmed the wet head of his cock, back stiffening, hips driving. Time fanned slow as he peaked, then snapped shut, like headlights through the windshield in a car crash, blinding him. He choked, coughed, tried to keep from making a mess on the sofa, his cum spurting hot in the palm of his hand.

He came back just in time to hear Misha, bright red and curled like a prawn, stage an impromptu aria, vowels ringing against the walls of the apartment. Jensen pitied the neighbors; he was always so _loud._

Misha grabbed his wrist. Rolling one blue eye over the curve of his shoulder to make certain he was watching, he licked and sucked the cum off his hand and fingers, soft tongue warm and wet as a washcloth, lapping every drop. Jensen couldn't breathe, his eyes wide, his cock twitching at the man's greed. 

“You taste good,” Misha said by way of explanation, smiling hot and sly.

Yeah, he was going to be the death of him.  
\---  
The buzzing of his cell woke him from sound sleep, and he had to fight to make his eyes focus on the glowing numbers on the screen. 3:12 AM. He quickly thumbed the call active to keep from waking Misha, breathing deep and even beside him. Round two had done him in for certain, but he slept so lightly that Jensen didn't want to take any chances.

Jared's voice, jagged with barely-concealed stress, dragged him the rest of the way to wakefulness: “Hey man, sorry to wake you. Just a heads-up, I'm on my way over.”

Jensen slipped out from beneath the blankets, wincing at the rudeness of the cold wood floor beneath his bare feet. “How far out?”

“About fifteen minutes, maybe? Make it twenty. Gen said she put gas in this thing, but surprise, surprise, looks like she lied about that, too.”

Jensen got dressed in the dark as Jared filled him in. Gen was a good woman, but when she'd had enough, she'd had enough. This wasn't the first time Jared crashed at Jensen's apartment after a fight got out of hand, but it was the first time he'd sent up the balloon and Jensen wasn't there.

Jensen didn't want to imagine his face if he turned up at his place and found it empty. He had just enough time to get back his apartment before he arrived, but only if he left immediately. He didn't even have time to wake Mish; he'd have to shoot him a text on the way over.

“All right, man, see you in fifteen,” he said, and ended the call. 

The lobby was brightly lit by overhead lights, so Jensen used the reflections off the windows to quickly finger-style his hair. Didn't want to walk around looking like a hobo, even if it was 3:30 in the morning. 

The doorkeeper glanced up from his paper to glare at him with runny eyes. Who read papers anymore? When did that dude sleep, anyway? Jensen shuddered in distaste and took out his cell to text Misha:

*Jared sent an SOS. Sorry U woke up alone. Thanks for last night.*


End file.
